Midsummer Nights
by Alix Cohen
Summary: Sarah gives England a present for the Jubilee. Yaoi Agents; England/Sarah with cosplay. Poem is the Imagination speech from "A Midsummer Night's Dream."


_The lunatic, the lover, and the poet  
are of imagination all compact.  
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;  
That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,  
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt._

* * *

Sarah had been acting strangely for several days. England knew she was up to something, but with all the hubbub of the Jubilee, he'd had no time to figure out what.

It involved sex, that much was certain. Two nights ago, she'd come to his bed dressed as a policewoman. Her hair was dyed red, and she was affecting a Scottish accent. "Amy Pond?" he'd guessed. "Of course I am; who else would I be?" she replied. He hadn't said anything to her about wanting cosplay that night; still, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The next morning, he thanked her, and she shrugged. He asked about her hair, and she didn't answer.

The next night, she was someone else: a wartime pinup girl whose name he'd long forgotten. There was nothing special about what she did that night, except for the odd sense of nostalgia that he was sure had to do with the Jubilee. Again, he asked her about it in the morning, and she told him the pinup's name, then changed the subject. And there was no time to ask her; that day they were to stand on a barge and look officious as the banks of the Thames flowed past them.

She was attempting to do him a favor, he realized sometime during that long ride. To celebrate the Jubilee? To reward him, somehow, for the achievement of having had the same boss for sixty years. Well, it was something to celebrate, and he knew she was making a great effort—all this took planning—but he wished he knew to what end.

That night was yet different. She came in late, in a red Victorian-cut dress, and had his shirt off and his wrist cuffed to the bedpost before he could even ask who she was this time. "Irene Adler," she told him, and grinned wickedly.

And she was wicked, that night. He wondered where she had learned at least half of what she did. That French lover of hers, perhaps. (It was always the French.)

And she was gaining nothing from it, it seemed; it was all to please him. When she left, in fact, in the wee hours, she couldn't disguise the tightness in her voice that meant she was about to fall over. And when he awoke the next morning, and saw the mess he'd made of the sheets, that sound was what he remembered.

He changed the bedclothes, showered, and tiptoed past her room. Sleeping peacefully. She'd earned it, in his book. He kept tiptoeing, down to the kitchen, where he fried her some eggs and buttered toast, then, wearing only his favorite apron, tiptoed back up the stairs to wake her with breakfast in bed.

"So, was that your dastardly plan?" he asked once she seemed to have revived somewhat. "To make me cook the breakfast?"

She shook her head, mouth full of toast. "No," she said, and swallowed. "That was just to soften you up for tonight."

"Tonight," he echoed. "What's tonight? The concert?"

She laughed. "After the concert. And I'm not going to tell you."

"But you didn't tell me any of the others…"

"No, I didn't. And this is extra special."

"So special you can't tell me?" He pretended to be stern. "Give me a clue."

She shook her head again. "Can't; it's a surprise."

* * *

_The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,  
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,  
And as imagination bodies forth  
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen  
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing  
A local habitation and a name._

* * *

Throughout the day he tried to ask her, trying to catch her off-guard. They went for a walk; he bought her an ice cream. She took the bribe and refused to tell. Finally, it was evening, and the noise and excitement of the concert drove all thought of the mysterious surprise from his mind.

Then a note was pressed into his hand, and he looked down and saw that she was gone. The note read:

Sorry I have to leave early. Rosa's helping me get ready. See you soon!

Getting ready. Well then. He'd find out soon. First, though, it was time to light the beacons.

* * *

It was past midnight when she appeared in the bedroom doorway. Or was it her? For a moment he didn't know. Then she stepped into the lamplight, and he knew who she was tonight.

His mouth hung open. "Bess…" he tried to say, but his throat was dry.

It was her. Precisely her, to the last pore. The red hair—now he knew why she'd dyed it—the thick white makeup—everything _everything_ as he remembered.

He began again. "My Queen," he said, softly, hesitantly, almost afraid she would disappear.

"My dear Nation," she replied, barely audible. Her voice was Sarah's, not Bess's, but that only added to the illusion, strengthened the feeling that she had never left him, never grown old.

He held out his hand. She took it; and he led her to the bed.

Forever after, he would remember that night through a clouded lens five hundred years in length. At some moments he was sure the woman beneath him was Bess; at others, he knew with equal certainty that it was Sarah. Perhaps this was symbolic of the Jubilee: past and present, continuous and indistinguishable. He certainly felt jubilant.

* * *

At some point afterward he roused himself enough to notice Sarah dozing beside him. He sat and admired at her for a while. She worked so hard, for his sake…The white paint was nearly gone from her face; now it was smeared on the pillow—and on himself. He grimaced, and forced himself to roll out of bed and to draw a bath. Then he returned to the bedroom and coaxed Sarah awake.

"Come on," he said, "get up, you need to wash," and at some point she understood, kicked off the bedclothes and stood unsteadily, blinking at him. Still half asleep, she leaned heavily on him as he led her to the bathtub and helped her slide into the water.

Still a child, he thought, as he knelt in the tub and wiped the makeup from her face with a washcloth. Only twenty-four. She must find it difficult, to please a man who has already lived forever. She shouldn't find it difficult, with a mind like hers—that wonderful boundless imagination…

"England?" she said finally. "Did I…"

He set down the washcloth and held her close. "Yes, my dear child," he whispered, "this was the perfect gift."

Later he led her back to her own bed; then he took a shower, and came back and lay down next to her. He would be there for her when she awoke; this was, he thought, the best thanks he could give her.

* * *

_Such tricks hath strong imagination  
That, if it could but apprehend some joy  
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;  
Or, in the night, imagining some fear,  
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!_


End file.
